Unwilling to risk making unnecessary noise, I did not make the bed. Nor did I remove my clothes. But I did take out the gun before stretching out on the same mattress where Moria had lain dead. I wanted it in my hand while I slept.
As I closed my eyes, I could sense the nightmares brewing in my subconscious. They would be especially gruesome tonight. Before I drifted off, I rolled up my handkerchief and jammed it between my teeth. It was the only way I could think of to choke off my screams.
33
I woke up early and exhausted. My sleep had been brittle and shallow and haunted. My jaw was cramped, and my throat burned, as though all the screams I'd stifled had seared my airways.
The light outside the windows was gray and sickly, just like I felt. I sat up, my feet on the floor, then jerked my head around as a cold finger ran down my spine. Of course the mattress was empty. No ghosts here or anywhere except in my dreams.
I treaded softly to the bathroom, peed, but did not flush. I remembered how loudly the pipes rumbled the last time I did.
I didn't dare go out. Not yet. Instead, I took up position by the window overlooking the entrance to the building, but stood well back so I could not be seen by any passersby below.
Beside me I had the bottle I'd brought with me from Tel Aviv, which I had filled up with water at the bar last night, and an open can of peas with the spoon I got from my bag; I didn't want to open any kitchen drawers if I could help it.
I stood for a long time before I saw anyone exit the building. It was a man I didn't know, one of the neighbors I hadn't encountered, probably. Then there was one of the women I'd spoken to and her children, school bags on their backs.
It was seven thirty when I saw the hulking form of Daniel Shukrun lumbering outside, a lunch pail in his grip. He walked south toward Malkei Israel Street and disappeared from sight.
That left Lillian. Nosy, watchful Lillian. She was the one I feared most. I hoped she would venture out soon.
Two hours passed and she didn't. My back started to ache. My ribs throbbed, reminding me that I was not fit for so much standing. But if I sat, I would have to move closer to the window to be able to see the building's entrance and near sidewalk, and then I might be seen in turn. I ate another can of food, corn this time. I drank all the water in my bottle. I wanted a cigarette badly, but I feared someone might smell the smoke from the landing.
Another hour. And then another. This was like guard duty in the war, standing watch over an empty landscape, getting so bored you half wished the enemy showed up and broke the tedium. A soldier's foolish mind.
"Come on, Lillian," I mouthed. "Go do some shopping. Take the baby out for a walk. Let her have some air, dammit."
And, as though God himself had heard my prayer, she appeared. Bundled up in a coat and pushing a baby stroller before her. She paused, started raising her head, and I took a hurried step backward, cursing. Was the woman psychic? Did she have a sixth sense?
I was too far from the window to see her now, and I worried that if I stepped forward, she might see me somehow. So I stayed rooted to my spot for a good minute, then inched forward to peek down.
She was gone.
Had she slipped back inside, alerted somehow to my presence? I moved right, caution thrown to the wind, to get a better angle of the southern portion of Amos Street.
There she was. Walking away, her back slightly bent as she maneuvered the stroller around a pair of chatting women.
I exhaled loudly and moved quickly. I had no idea how long Lillian would be gone. I flushed the toilet, had a drink of water, and got out of the apartment after checking through the peephole that no one was lurking on the landing.
I turned north, in the opposite direction of the way Lillian had gone, and left Amos Street behind me. That was the easy part of my day. Now came something harder.
The night we talked in Café Atara, which seemed like years ago now, Naomi Hecht had told me she lived on the corner of Malachi and Zeharia Streets. I had no idea if she was home at the moment. I also didn't know whether her husband would be there, but he was likely at work. As for her, unless she had found a new job since the day I fled Jerusalem, she was currently unemployed.
I walked through a drizzle, my spine tingling, my pulse spiking every time I turned a corner, sure Kulaski would be waiting for me, his immaculate uniform magically untouched by the precipitation and a merciless tight-lipped smile on his lips.
My palm was clammy around the grip of the gun in my pocket. If Kulaski came after me, he was in for a big surprise.
And afterward?
I preferred not to think about that.
Naomi Hecht's building was four stories tall. A departing neighbor told me she lived in apartment 6, on the second floor. A child's bicycle leaned against one of the walls in the lobby. The smell of cooking permeated the second-floor landing. Someone was making powdered eggs and beans. A potent combination.
I knocked on the door marked 6. Naomi Hecht opened it. Her face registered surprise when she saw me. She was wearing a black dress that fit her perfectly and white stockings that clung to her calves. Her only ornament was her wedding band.
The days that had elapsed since our last encounter had been cruel to her. She looked more tired than ever.
"Mr. Lapid, what are you doing—" She stopped and peered closely at my face. "What happened to your nose? And your forehead? Were you in an accident?"
My nose was no longer swollen, and, like Dr. Aboulker had predicted, it was flatter than before but not overly so. The skin on my forehead was tinted pink, still recovering from its abrasions.
Despite what I knew about her, her scrutiny made me self-conscious. Involuntarily, my hand went to my forehead as though to shield it from her stare. Swearing inwardly, I yanked it down and said, "Can I come in, Mrs. Hecht?"
She moved aside, and I entered a homey living room. A gray sofa, a small oval table and chairs, heavy curtains pulled back from south-looking windows, books on shelves, a thick rug. Everything tidy and neat, as though just after a rigorous cleaning.
"Shall I make you some tea?" she asked.
"I'm not here to drink."
"What are you here for?"
On a sideboard stood a number of photographs. Naomi Hecht in a pristine nurse's uniform, squinting against the sun in her eyes. Naomi Hecht in a wedding dress next to a handsome black-haired man in a suit, both of them grinning like excited children. The same man, this time in an IDF uniform, standing against a forest backdrop, somewhere in the Galilee, maybe, or in the mountains around Jerusalem.
"Is your husband home?" I asked, my eyes still on the photos, though there was a sense of vacancy to the place that made me believe she and I were the only people there.
She hesitated, cleared her throat. "No. He's not here. Why?"
I looked at her. There was a sparkle to her eyes, and her pupils looked dilated. Nervousness? Her breath was a little quick, and she was fidgeting with her wedding ring again. Her tell for deceit, or most likely, her getting ready to lie through her teeth. No doubt she was at that instant trying to anticipate my questions and preparing false answers to them.
"I know you lied to me," I told her. "I know you and Moria switched shifts the night Dr. Shapira was killed. I know everything."
Her shoulders sagged, and she dropped onto the sofa. She ran her hands over her face and kept them clasped under her chin.
"I lied to protect her," she said. "I didn't want you to think she could have been a murderer."
I snorted. "That's not the full reason, and we both know it."
Naomi Hecht frowned and lowered her hands to her knees. "What do you mean?"
She was getting better at deceit. She didn't go anywhere near her wedding ring this time.